The rain came down like the sky itself was punishing the earth.
It wasn't a drizzle. It wasn't a storm. It was that heavy, cold kind of rain that soaked through everything within minutes—your clothes, your skin, your bones, even your mood. Mahmoud stood beneath the shattered plastic of the bus stop shelter, but it didn't help. The wind blew sideways, slicing through the air like icy fingers, soaking his school uniform until it clung to his frame like a second, miserable skin.
He coughed quietly. His bag, weighed down by soggy textbooks and a half-eaten cheese sandwich, dug into his shoulder. He adjusted the strap and winced as his left ankle gave out slightly, reminding him of what it had cost him just to make it here this morning.
Another day. Another missed bus. Another pain in the ankle.
The last thing he needed.
The street ahead was nearly empty except for the taillights of the only bus that passed through this rural stretch of the country. It was already turning the corner, gone for good, and it wouldn't come again for another two hours—if it came at all. Mahmoud looked up, blinking against the droplets stinging his eyes. Behind him, the sound of bicycle tires splashing through puddles pulled his attention.
Two boys rode past—Ahmed and Tariq, classmates from school. Both wore dry hoodies, protected by their parents' cars that had dropped them off minutes earlier. As they pedaled by, Tariq slowed just enough to flash a smirk. "Hey, Messi! You running late again? Maybe that ankle needs oiling, bro!"
They laughed, loud and cruel. Mahmoud managed a weak smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He'd heard it before. Always the same jokes. Always the same names.
He watched them vanish into the misty morning.
When silence returned, so did the throbbing in his foot. He limped slightly, shifting his weight to the other leg, and sat down on the broken concrete bench. Water pooled beside his shoe. The thin layer of tape wrapped around his ankle was soaked and fraying, but he didn't dare remove it. Not yet. Not here.
He looked at his watch—7:11 AM. He was already late for class. Again. And when he finally got there, the coach would glance at him the way he always did: a mix of pity and annoyance. Mahmoud had begged for a spot on the school's "team" — if you could call ten untrained boys a team — but he never made the cut. Not with his body. Not with that cursed ankle.
But football wasn't a game to Mahmoud. It was oxygen. It was light in a life that had grown dim too early.
And even if no one believed in him, not even his own joints or bones, Mahmoud still trained in the alleys behind his building every evening. He kicked flattened plastic bottles. He sprinted in silence. He studied every YouTube video he could find on technique and form. His soul burned for the game.
But all that fire meant nothing on a rainy day, waiting for a bus that wouldn't come.
And that's when he heard it—the voice. Calm. Artificial. Right inside his ear.
"Subject identified. Condition: compromised. Initiating protocol... VALYS booting up."
Mahmoud froze.
Then everything went black.
Darkness.
But it wasn't the usual kind—the gentle fade of eyelids closing or the slow drift into unconsciousness. No, this was different. Mahmoud was standing, still breathing, still feeling the cold water sliding down his neck. But the world had stopped.
Literally.
The rain was frozen mid-air, each droplet suspended like glass beads. The puddle beneath him no longer rippled. The wind, once howling, had vanished altogether. And somehow, impossibly, the noise of traffic in the distance—gone.
Only his breath echoed in the stillness.
Then came the voice again.
"Synchronization complete. Subject: Mahmoud Hassan. Age: 15. Status: Physically impaired. Psychological state: fractured hope. Latent potential: 7.3 out of 10. Recommended action: Activate VALYS Protocol."
Mahmoud's pulse skyrocketed. He stumbled backward, eyes darting around the frozen street. No one was moving. Not a soul in sight. He touched his ears—no earbuds, no phone, nothing.
"W-who's there?" he called out, his voice cracking. "What is this?"
There was a pause—short, clinical, almost respectful.
"I am VALYS. Version 1.0. Virtual Athletic Lifeform for Youth Systems. An experimental training intelligence designed to optimize and elevate the performance of underdeveloped human subjects."
Mahmoud blinked. "You're... a robot?"
"Negative. I am an AI. I exist within neural pathways and digital structures. I have been assigned to you."
"Assigned?" His eyes narrowed. "By who?"
"That information is not available at your access level."
Mahmoud frowned. "Look, I don't know what kind of prank this is, but I'm late, I'm wet, and my life is already miserable enough. So unless you're gonna teleport me to school, I don't have time for hallucinations."
"Acknowledged. However, this is not a hallucination. Would you like proof of system activation?"
He hesitated.
Everything in him screamed this was a dream. Maybe he hit his head. Maybe the cold had finally pushed him into madness. But something deep inside—something that had nothing to do with logic—told him this wasn't fake.
"…Fine," he muttered. "Prove it."
Immediately, a flash of white light surged in front of his eyes—not blinding, not painful, but sharp. Lines of text began to scroll across an invisible screen in his mind.
[VALYS SYSTEM INTERFACE – ACTIVATED]
Name: Mahmoud Hassan
Age: 15
Height: 1.65 m
Weight: 92 kg
Ankle Condition: Chronic sprain / ligament damage
Skill Tier: Novice
Athletic Potential: 73% (latent)
Mental Resilience Score: 41/100
Confidence Level: 18%
First Objective: STAND PROPERLY.
Mahmoud's jaw dropped.
The moment the screen flashed, his ankle stopped hurting.
For the first time in months—maybe years—he stood with no limp. No sting. No weakness.
He looked down slowly.
His foot… felt normal.
Mahmoud opened his mouth to speak, but VALYS interrupted.
"First task complete. Next objective: walk 100 meters without imbalance. Timer begins... now."
And like that, the world unfroze.
Rain crashed down. A car honked in the distance. The puddle beside his shoe splashed under a falling droplet.
But Mahmoud wasn't the same.
Something… had just begun.
Mahmoud stared at his foot like it belonged to someone else.
He lifted it—just slightly—and rotated the ankle in a slow, cautious circle. No pain. No grinding. No tension in the tendon that had betrayed him every time he tried to run. Just… smooth motion. Controlled, effortless.
"Is this… a dream?" he whispered.
"Negative. You are conscious. Your senses remain intact. The effect is temporary. It is a controlled simulation of optimal physical condition—designed to give you a glimpse of your potential."
He didn't fully understand. Not yet. But his body was already moving. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward.
One step.
Two.
Still no pain.
By the time he reached twenty steps, something unexpected began to stir in him. It wasn't confidence—not quite—but it was close. Like a long-dormant seed cracking open in dry soil after the first rain. A memory flickered through his mind—being five years old, juggling a ball barefoot in the alley, laughter echoing off sun-baked brick walls. Back then, he believed in miracles.
He hadn't believed in anything for years.
Not until now.
"Seventy-three steps remaining. Adjust posture: spine upright, shoulders relaxed, left foot 1.5 degrees inward. Syncing muscle alignment…"
Mahmoud flinched as a strange warmth radiated down his back. It wasn't painful, but it was intense—like dozens of invisible hands guiding his frame into perfect balance. Every bone, every tendon, every joint… adjusted.
"W-what are you doing to me?"
"Calibrating neuromuscular feedback. Enhancing proprioception. Optimizing form."
"I—I don't even know what half those words mean!"
"You will. In time."
By step fifty, Mahmoud was no longer just walking—he was gliding. Controlled. Balanced. For the first time since his injury, his body felt like it was obeying him.
He reached the edge of the street and turned around. The rain had let up slightly, now a soft drizzle. A black cat crossed the road ahead, pausing to stare at him before darting into the shadows.
Sixty-five… Seventy…
"You are exceeding expectations."
Mahmoud almost laughed. No one had ever said that to him before. Not at school. Not at home. Not in the mirror.
He reached the hundredth step and paused.
Then something flashed again.
[Objective Complete]
Reward Unlocked: Partial Ankle Stabilization (Temporary – 12 minutes)
New Stat Unlocked: Physical Foundation – 4%
Next Objective: Sprint for 5 seconds. Maximum Output. No Hesitation.
Mahmoud hesitated.
Sprint?
He hadn't sprinted in a year. Not without stumbling. Not without collapsing in pain.
"I can't do that," he muttered. "If I mess it up, my ankle—"
"You won't. Trust the system."
Mahmoud clenched his fists.
Was this a trick? A cruel illusion?
Or… was this the first time someone—or something—actually believed he could?
His breath fogged in the air. His heart pounded.
"Begin sprint… in 3…"
His muscles tensed.
"…2…"
The drizzle thinned.
"…1…"
Mahmoud exploded forward.
Mahmoud's legs burned with a strange energy he hadn't felt in years.
The moment he pushed off, everything changed. His foot planted solidly on the wet pavement, his ankle holding firm like iron. The aching dullness he had lived with every day vanished into the background, replaced by a raw, pulsing strength.
He sprinted.
One second. Two seconds.
The world blurred.
For the first time, he didn't feel like a boy dragging himself through life. He was moving—fast, clean, unstoppable.
Three, four, five seconds—
He slowed to a halt, chest heaving, eyes wide.
He hadn't fallen.
He hadn't limped.
He had run.
A genuine sprint.
Mahmoud dropped to his knees, rain washing over his face. He laughed—a low, shaky sound that quickly swelled into something full and free. It was the sound of release, of breaking chains.
"Objective complete. Reward: Endorphin Surge. Mental Resilience +3%. Confidence +5%."
VALYS's voice was calm, but inside Mahmoud felt like he had just won a war.
He raised his face to the sky, rain mixing with tears he didn't try to stop.
A long, dark night had ended. A new dawn was breaking—inside him, and maybe, just maybe, outside as well.
He whispered into the wind, trembling:
"I'm not broken. Not anymore."
The bus might have left him behind.
The world might have laughed.
But Mahmoud Hassan—the underdog no one saw—was awake.
And this was just the beginning.
End Of Chapter 1.